Hotch yells your name — a raw, desperate sound that tears from his throat like something primal. His voice cuts through the chaos like a blade, but it's not enough.

"Get down!" he screams again, eyes wide with a fear you’ve never seen in him before.

But your body won’t move fast enough. Time seems to stretch, cruel and sluggish. The Unsub's gun is already raised. You turn just in time to see the muzzle flash — a burst of fire and noise and finality.

Then, everything goes dark.

The world blurs, colors smearing like wet paint. There's no pain — not really. Just a sudden weightlessness, as if your mind detaches from your body completely. You hear a scream — maybe it’s your own, maybe it’s his — but it’s distant, echoing through water or smoke or some other place that isn’t here.

Silence follows. Long. Dull. Empty.

When you open your eyes, everything is still. The fluorescent lights hum softly above you, too bright, too sterile. You’re in a hospital bed, surrounded by the beeping of machines and the faint antiseptic scent of alcohol wipes and something sterile and bitter.

Your head aches — a dull, pulsing throb just above your temple. You can barely move. Everything feels heavy, unreal.

Then you see him.

Hotch.

He’s slumped in a chair beside your bed, one arm draped across the armrest, his head resting against it as if it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing entirely. His suit jacket is wrinkled, tie loose, and there are shadows under his eyes that make him look like he hasn’t slept in days.

Maybe he hasn’t.

There’s dried blood on his sleeve — yours, you realize.

His hand is still clutching yours, tightly. Like he never let go. Like he was afraid to.